Brevity Is Key
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: Where I'll put any short one shots or drabbles I come up with over this winter break. I plan to write many just as an exercise for my brain until I go back for my last semester of uni in the end of January. Johnlock. Always Johnlock.
1. Noise

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**I'm doing this because the shorter the story, the more difficult it is for me to write. I'm working towards writing a 100 word story that actually has meaning. Until then, 1000 words or less. **

**Rated M because probably some of them will be sexy. I'll put the rating above the story.**

* * *

**_Noise_**

Words: 999

Rating: K

Spoilers: N/A

* * *

Not much longer. Sherlock knew that. Only an hour longer and he'd be free.

But when each minute felt like an eternity, that was hardly comfort.

Without the work, his brain rotted. He had meant that when he said it. When he didn't have a case, he could nearly smell the decomposition in his own skull. There was an itching fuzziness in his head and in his blood that he felt at all times, since as long as he could remember. And of course, beyond the itch, there was the noise. His brain, it was screaming constantly. Not one voice with one message—that he would accept gratefully. No, it was a cacophony of whispers that turned to a dull roar between his ears. His mind was his greatest gift and his greatest curse, because he couldn't turn it off. Anyone in the world must've thought Sherlock would have no reason to _want_ to turn it off… but sometimes it became too much. There was just the screaming and when he saw everything all at once sometimes he was seeing nothing at all and this was one of those times. He knew that the married ones upstairs were having a row and Mrs Hudson was baking again and a couple from Sweden was lost on their way to an Italian restaurant just outside 221 and a million other things, but none of it mattered. None of it was the work, which meant none of it made any difference. Which meant his head was full of things that he wanted to delete but if he deleted it all then his head would be silent and that was the only thing worse than the racket. His violin was just a screech to add to the din and the computer was just a world wide web of things that didn't matter in the slightest and he couldn't sit because he couldn't stand the scrub of the settee on his flesh and he didn't even want to stand because he could feel the floor beneath his feet and he had to stop existing, he had to just stop, it was the only way because he couldn't do this for long. He never could.

There were very few things in the world that helped him when he was like this. In his youth, it was always a mystery. In uni he found drugs, and they helped from time to time.

But the best help was only an hour away. Just an hour he had to wait and not go mad. He could do that, right?

He went into the kitchen and jumped on the counter just because the floor beneath his feet was making him barmy but then the marble under him spoke of past experiments and rows and mysteries long solved and he couldn't think about any of it, none of it.

He jumped off and paced, back and forth and back and forth and he closed his eyes but saw his palace which was the last thing he needed right now.

Too much too much TOO MUCH.

"SHUT UP!"

He was so far gone he didn't realise he said it aloud. When he was like this there was nothing anyone could do. Well, one person and one only.

An hour.

Spinning.

Just one.

His head was spinning.

His life was spinning, falling, careening out of control, no work, no cocaine, nothing—

He couldn't make it.

"Sherlock."

The spinning stopped. The shouting stopped. The universe ground to a halt and Sherlock froze, whipping around.

There he was. His dark sapphire eyes wide with concern, but no confusion. He knew what this was. He had seen it enough times. He was breathing just a little bit harder than normal. It never ceased to scare him to see Sherlock like this. Not fear of Sherlock, but _for_ Sherlock.

But now it was quiet. Not silent, which would be the worst thing Sherlock could imagine, but the millions upon millions of whispers were just one voice now. Not his own, no. The golden, warm voice of the only one that mattered.

_I'm here. I'm right here. _

Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd thought it or actually heard the shorter man say it. It didn't really matter.

"_John_," he sighed, coming forward and putting his forehead against the other man's. Every place they touched was hot—not a shock, but a gentle warmth that spread slowly through him, like winter giving way for spring.

They were silent for a long time, with Sherlock having his eyes closed and resting against him, just feeling him there. He ran a soothing palm up and down Sherlock's arm with one hand as the other rested on Sherlock's cheek, thumb rubbing against his cheekbone tenderly.

It was an eternity before Sherlock spoke. "You aren't supposed to be home yet."

"I knew you needed me."

Sherlock's eyes opened. "How?" he asked without condescension—truly curious for once.

And then he grinned, that perfect grin that brought the sunrise with it, banishing all the darkness Sherlock had been feeling. "Because I know everything."

Sherlock pulled his most incredulous face and sucked in a breath to—

Lips pressed firmly against his own, and he let out the air again.

"_John_," Sherlock hummed appreciatively, a dreamy smile on his face that Lestrade would pay money to see a picture of. Sherlock kissed him again, savouring the taste and the shape and the meaning under it all.

He didn't have to say it, but he did anyhow.

"I love you," he breathed against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock felt his smile widen, locking eyes with the other man. He could have said the proper response. He could have started deducing. He could have done a lot of things.

"John," he said one more time, and he might as well have said 'I love you' from the look on the other man's face.

John.

_John_.

Better than a mystery. Better than a drug. Better than everything.

And Sherlock's. All Sherlock's.


	2. Dancing

_**Dancing**_

Words: 847

Rating: K

Spoilers: N/A (but will be more entertaining if you've seen S3:E2)

* * *

"Sherlock, this is stupid."

"Yes."

"No, I mean _really_ stupid. And ridiculously out of character, might I add."

"Obviously."

John stared at Sherlock pointedly. "Then what the hell are we doing here?" Sherlock didn't reply as he handed the cabbie more than a few extra pounds on the way out. "You don't even like drinking," John added—for probably the tenth time.

"Astute observation, John. You're on sparkling form tonight. Have you anything to deduce other than how inane this idea is or how impartial I am to alcohol?"

John stared at the club in abject horror. Sure, John fancied a drink now and then, but he hadn't done anything like this in years—his insane uni days were so long ago John hardly remembered them.

And yet Sherlock came out of his bedroom in an even tighter shirt than usual, a crimson one John had never seen, and the most impeccable, downright-indecent-amounts-of-sexy jeans—yes, _jeans_—and announced that John had better get dressed because they were on their way to a club.

John kept staring at Sherlock, utterly dumbfounded. "Sherlock," John said, "What the hell is going on? Is there some case here?"

"As I stated the other seventeen times you asked that question, no, we're not here for work. We're here to do what people do at clubs."

"What, dance? You don't like to dance!"

Sherlock looked down to John, his annoyance at John's constant prodding giving way to something else. This sparkle in his eye, this slight twerk upward of the corner of his mouth.

"Now that deduction was not so astute," Sherlock replied quietly, looking amused. "And you'd been doing so well."

John couldn't work through what Sherlock meant before he was being dragged inside. John was old enough not to get carded now and that in itself was a little embarrassing. What the hell were they doing here? Did Sherlock not understand what would truly go on in this establishment?

John was assaulted by bright lights and pounding bass, and if John were not so confused he might have felt a similar rush to what he had back in uni.

"Sher—"

Whatever John planned to say was forgotten as Sherlock pulled him through the masses of people, stopping in front of the bar and getting John three shots of something—John didn't hear what.

"You don't drink," John repeated dumbly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but had a strange, tiny smile on his face that wouldn't be budged.

"No, I don't. But you obviously need this in order to dance with me."

"And you don't?"

Sherlock's smile widened almost unperceivably. "I need no incentive to dance with you, John."

John stared up at Sherlock and finally—late, admittedly—it clicked.

"Wait. You honestly… just want to dance with me."

"Obviously." But the term that usually held so much derision sounded fond. That smile still persisted.

And then that clicked too.

Sherlock was excited.

"So… you _do_ like to dance?"

Sherlock shook his head and gave a chuckle as deep as the bass echoing through the room. "Come, John, drink up. I'm eager to begin."

Once John realised that they truly were here to dance, he got a little more enthusiastic. Well, enough to take his shots and allow Sherlock to tug him through the people to a hole in the dancers.

It had been so long. Did John know how to do this anymore? Did Sherlock ever know how to? This was silly. They weren't a couple of kids, they were—

Sherlock pulled him in as close as he could and started to move.

It was enrapturing.

Sherlock was one with the music. Seriously, every move he made was fluid and exactly in sync with the tune that was on at any moment—maybe he could guess the transitions before they happened, because he never missed a beat. He was so smooth, so sure, that John fell into rhythm too, and they were gyrating against each other like teenagers and snogging when they could and it was sweaty and childish and absolutely perfect.

And Sherlock kept grinning. It was astonishing.

"I didn't know you were so good at this," John called over the music.

"I didn't know you could be even sexier than usual," Sherlock purred back into his ear. The sentence sounded strange coming out of that mouth, but felt right going into John's ears. John bit his lip and grinned, nuzzling Sherlock's neck.

John figured they'd make out again… but then they locked eyes. Their bodies moved seemingly of their own accord, but they found themselves in a moment all their own suddenly, staring at one another.

How had he gotten so lucky? How had he found someone that always understood even when he didn't? Who always surprised but never disappointed?

In that moment, John decided it didn't matter what they were doing. It was just he and Sherlock, and that was all that would ever matter.

And John leaned in for a tender kiss, translating all that he was thinking through the contact.

And Sherlock knew.

Sherlock always knew.


	3. Desk

_**Desk**_

Words: 998

Rating: M

Spoilers: N/A

* * *

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, _god_—"

John couldn't breathe. Definitely couldn't breathe. Sherlock was naturally gifted at most everything he did—somehow blowjobs applied to that.

John's hand was weaved into Sherlock's dark locks, gripping like he would fly off the planet if he let go even fractionally.

"God, you're beautiful, you're amazing, you're—_fuuuuck_." He was babbling, because there weren't enough words in the English language to describe the ridiculous man between his legs who was currently deep-throating John like there was nothing he enjoyed more.

John remembered vaguely right about then that he had thought this was a bad idea. There was a reason for that. There was—

Sherlock did something exquisite with his tongue and John forgot how to think again.

Sherlock slowly, tantalisingly, came off John's cock, looking up with pleading eyes and dark, slightly swollen lips. "I need you inside me, John. Fuck me, _now_."

The ring of command in Sherlock's voice only made John more eager to obey somehow. He tugged Sherlock up from the ground by his hair and found that glorious mouth. He could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, which was strange, but he could also taste Sherlock—who tasted just like John, since they had used the same toothpaste and eaten the same food and drank the same tea and there was something unendingly satisfying that he and Sherlock, in this one way, were exactly alike.

And then John remembered all at once why he had been a little wary of Sherlock's whole plan. He wasn't sure what reminded him—the distinctly not-home smell of the room or the cold door against his back.

But he pulled away.

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous," John reasoned. "Anyone could walk in."

"Precisely."

John was going to argue, but Sherlock leaned in and licked a steady line from John's collarbone to his ear and then began to nibble away at the lobe. John's cock was twitching and his mind was emptying and _fuck_ Sherlock was so hot it should be illegal.

Then Sherlock was rubbing his cock against John's through their trousers and John's head fell back against the door with a dull _thump_ and he gave a moan that was just a little too loud.

Which brought him back to reality.

"This is public indecency, Sherlock. And we're at _Scotland Yard_. Not to mention whose office this is. Are you not seeing how this is a bad idea?"

John expected Sherlock to get impatient, but surprisingly, he didn't. He leaned in close until his lips were just barely touching John's ear. "Let them see us, John. Let them see you take me."

Had Sherlock not breathed those words against him in the sexiest way possible, John might have rolled his eyes.

"Just because—" Sherlock was suckling at his ear again suddenly. John did have to pause, but he wouldn't be stopped, not this time. "I know you're all proud that you—_ngghh_—discovered another k-kink of—ah fuck—uh, of mine, but isn't this taking it a little f-f-_fuck_-far?"

John didn't know how Sherlock figured it out. Probably the dust on his shoe or the picture of he and Molly on his computer from Christmas, but Sherlock deduced—correctly, of course—that John had an exhibitionism kink.

But Sherlock wasn't done, and apparently was hearing none of John's arguments against the idea. He continued in John's ear, "Imagine if someone walked in and saw you with your cock inside my arse." John's eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Dirty words were nothing less than filthy when said in that silky baritone of Sherlock's. He only used them to drive John mad. "They would know that I'm yours, and they would see how lost you make me. God, John, I need you. Fuck me. Fuck me or I'll burst."

John knew the exact moment when all his resolve disintegrated. With a growl, he turned Sherlock around and shoved him onto the abandoned desk—Lestrade was out for lunch, you see. He yanked Sherlock's trousers down and could tell immediately that Sherlock prepared himself before they even left the flat—mischievous bastard.

But John was past caring. Without any ado whatsoever, he shoved inside, groaning his satisfaction at the feel of Sherlock around him.

"Yes," Sherlock said appreciatively. John knew Sherlock only spoke during sex because John liked it. Not because he'd ever said so, but because it was Sherlock and seemed the only possible explanation.

But that didn't make it any less sexy.

And John was moving. This was no session of love-making. This was desperate, quick rutting that would come to a quick completion. The desk was screeching against the floor and John was sure someone would hear, which only made him move faster.

The door knob jiggled.

John's very first instinct was to stop. But he couldn't, not now. So he kept on.

Sherlock had obviously thought to lock the door. But someone was out there, and was going to figure out what was happening soon enough.

Then Sherlock called out—with a satisfyingly breathless voice, mind you, "We'll only be another forty seven seconds. Off you go."

"Oh—god—you're fucking joking. Tell me you're joking."

God, John was getting close. He had started jerking Sherlock in time with his thrusts, but he didn't remember when.

"God, _Sherlock_." John didn't know if he said it as loud as he did on purpose or not.

When he came, it was a blast of white that rocked his whole body. Sherlock came soon after, as John was still thrusting to ride his own orgasm out.

They were breathing hard for a long moment. "Sherlock, Lestrade's gonna kill us." He didn't notice that he was laughing as he said it.

"No he won't."

John said with a grin, "And why not?"

"Because he's a voyeur. He won't admit it, but this'll be wanking material for weeks."

John gaped down at Sherlock. "You bastard."

Sherlock gave a wolfish grin. "Guilty as charged."


	4. Mourning

_**Mourning**_

Words: 992

Rating: T

Spoilers: Through series 3 (but with addition of non-canon events)

* * *

"For Sale:

Baby shoes. Never worn."

E. Hemingway

Sherlock woke that morning knowing something was wrong. Sherlock, who slept very little in the first place, always woke before John. And Sherlock would wait for John to blearily awaken, and would kiss him the moment he did so he was the first thing John saw in the morning. It was cheesy and he would never admit the ritual to anyone, but there was something satisfying in knowing that John wouldn't even see the ceiling above his prone form before he'd feel Sherlock against him. It was the least Sherlock could do, really, considering everything he had done to hurt John in the past.

John was happy with Sherlock. Sherlock knew that much. John was glad they had the chance to be together and wouldn't change that for the world.

But his past still existed and still sometimes haunted him.

So when Sherlock woke up and John's side of the bed was empty and cold—implying it had been empty for a while—Sherlock knew that John was upset. He got up and only threw on a clean pair of pants and his blue dressing gown as he left the room in search of John.

He wasn't in the front room, and had not sat there this morning, obviously. He looked to the kitchen, where there was evidence that he had made a cuppa about an hour earlier. No fry-up though, which he often fancied on a Saturday.

Something was certainly amiss, Sherlock knew that.

And he didn't need deductive genius to guess what exactly was the matter. It was almost always the same thing, in the seldom occasions John got like this. In the evening, he might be found in various pubs with Lestrade. This early, however, it was a toss-up.

Sherlock made an educated guess and climbed up the stairs, opening John's door quietly.

There he was. He was fully dressed in his customary oatmeal jumper and jeans, and he was holding it there in his hands, looking down at it.

It was always there in between his fingers when he thought about this.

It was a tiny red shoe. Never worn.

Sherlock may have been lost on human emotion much of the time, but even he felt the heaviness of that object in John's grasp. He never knew her, the same way John never did, but they knew Mary. And she was Mary and she was John and she was never going to be. Sherlock felt that.

And Sherlock always felt for John anyhow.

Sherlock lingered in the doorway. Consoling was never his forte. Even now, when he and John had been together as long as they had been, he never knew what to say. As a rule, he said nothing at all. He knew it wasn't what John wanted, but what could he say to fix it? And John knew that too, which was why he never asked for anything more.

Sherlock usually didn't even go into the room when John was like this, honestly. When he did, he tried to change the subject, and John would pretend to be okay. Sherlock sometimes wondered if John honestly thought he was convincing. Either way, they never said a word, but Sherlock knew.

But now Sherlock was standing there, and he hadn't thought of anything to bring up, any experiment to suddenly begin. His mind was unnervingly blank.

"She deserved to live, you know. They both did."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he might reply even though they both knew he wouldn't. His jaw snapped shut again.

He didn't know how long it was before John looked up at Sherlock, but Sherlock almost stepped back when he saw the look on the other man's face.

He was livid.

And it wasn't at some third party.

He was livid with _Sherlock_.

"How do you do it?" he demanded venomously.

Sherlock was, as infrequent as this event was, sincerely confused.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock replied, tasting bile at the back of his throat at asking anything in honest bemusement.

John stood up. "How can you feel nothing? You knew Mary. You even liked her, unless I read all the signs wrong. And you just stand there and don't feel a fucking thing. She was my wife. That thing inside her wasn't a _thing_, it was my _daughter_." John was shouting now, his whole body gone rigid—but that red shoe was still cradled in gentle fingers. "And you just fucking stand there with that blank look on your face! What makes you so invulnerable? Where the fuck do I get whatever you're smoking? And then I fell for you, and how romantic it must seem that I found happiness in a bad situation, but you just—why are you just fucking _standing there_?! Do something! _Feel something!_"

Sherlock just stared for a long moment. And still, there were no words. Thoughts, yes. Thousands of thoughts. But not even the vastest vocabulary could even begin to voice them.

And maybe John wasn't a genius. Far from it. But he knew Sherlock more than anyone, and Sherlock watched as John understood all the things the detective didn't know how to say.

John let out a startled breath, taking a step back. "I'm sorry," he breathed out quickly, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock stood there for another moment before he stepped forward and just barely raised his arms.

John was in them in a second, breathing heavily into Sherlock's chest.

"Damn it," he muttered into the pale skin.

"I know," Sherlock replied, quietly enough that it was a deep rumble more than it was a sound.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I know you—"

"I know."

"But I just—"

"I _know_."

John looked up, his eyes shining. And then Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "Fancy a fuck? Because I do."

Sherlock wasn't sure for half a moment if it was the right thing to say. Not until John let out a watery laugh.

"Always."


	5. Meeting

_**Meeting**_

Words: 966

Rating: K

Spoilers: S1:E1

* * *

When Mike Stamford walked into the lab with a man Sherlock had never seen before, he was immediately suspicious. Sherlock stole a glance up out of habit. Haircut and the way he held himself said military. Not to mention that limp of his, which was immediately apparent. Invalided then.

God, Sherlock never should have mentioned a word about flatmates. Now he brings in a _soldier_, the dullest creature imaginable. Unbelievable.

Then he heard the new man say, "Well, bit different from my day."

Inwardly, Sherlock raised a brow. Alright, doctor. That was something, at least. Probably had half a brain cell then.

Sherlock then realised that the arrival was well timed. He was just resenting the fact that his phone had no signal at the mo' and in walked a mobile he could use. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Stamford said something. Sherlock deleted exactly what. "I prefer to text," he said shortly before Stamford gave some form of refusal that Sherlock didn't bother to recall. The part that mattered was he needed—

"Er, here. Use mine."

Sherlock's head popped up the moment the man spoke. Sherlock was not often surprised, but in this moment he was. It showed an amount of kindness that was tediously boring… but somehow intriguing in the fact that it was so rare a trait. Sherlock found himself interested.

Not to mention he needed the mobile.

"Oh. Thank you."

He glanced at Stamford, who finally thought to make an introduction.

John Watson. Hm.

Sherlock took the phone. Ah, owned previously by an alcoholic brother. Who just left his wife, no less.

Sherlock bothered with another glance at this John Watson.

Tanned face, but no tan above wrists. Abroad, but not sunbathing. Obvious already from the military background.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

_If brother has green ladder, arrest brother - SH_

"Sorry?"

God, did Sherlock loathe to repeat himself. He managed not to sound hostile when saying, "Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He glanced up a third time—and three whole glances from Sherlock Holmes when you weren't a corpse was avid interest.

He was still standing on that leg. Limp was psychosomatic then.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?"

Sherlock was momentarily distracted. Coffee appeared in his hand. Molly. It tasted all wrong. Too much sugar.

Sherlock didn't know why… but he liked this John Watson. He would've blown off Stamford's obvious offer, usually, but he needed a flatshare and John Watson… was interesting. If only a little.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

A long silence. Oh no, don't be slow. Don't annoy me already.

"I'm sorry, what?" asked John.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He tried for a smile in John's direction, but it didn't seem to come off correctly from the look on John's face. He'd get that right someday, he supposed.

Unimportant conversation between John and Stamford during which Sherlock glanced around for his riding crop.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" asked Dr. Watson.

Ah, explanations. Tedious. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Words Sherlock ignored ensued, after which he informed John, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?"

Sherlock was almost surprised John said anything. English reserve, after all. But he turned back to the man, interested again. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

Oh. Attitude. That could be fun. Sherlock could play too.

"Problem?"

After an incredulous smile, John said, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting—I don't even know your name."

Sherlock gave John one last glance to make sure he caught all he could for now and then spouted off: "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Sherlock half expected John to stop him midway through, but he didn't—only looked on in something like horror as Sherlock spewed his own life story at him. Sherlock felt sick pleasure at the sensation of making a person feel so disarmed.

In fact, he decided that was an alright moment to leave on. He opened the door to make his way through, leaving a still silent John behind…

Then he stuck his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street." It was melodramatic to say the least, but he favoured John a wink before saying "Afternoon" and making his way out.

And Sherlock was surprised to find he really did sort of like the man. There was something about him. Kind, but with fire. A doctor, but also a soldier. Many contradictions just waiting to be unraveled.

Not that John would show up.

And then, at seven o' clock, he did.

Well. Maybe this really was an interesting man.

"Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

And he meant it.


	6. Christmas

_**Christmas**_

**NOTE: Just a fun little addition for Christmas, since I shall not be writing anything of depth tomorrow, I should assume. Thanks for reading so far and I hope you continue to enjoy my one shot experiment!**

Words: 59

Rating: K

Spoilers: N/A

* * *

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:

Twelve solved cases

Eleven oatmeal jumpers

Ten Lestrade IDs

Nine dead bodies

Eight uncouth deductions

Seven vague texts

Six cups of tea

Five orange pips

Four serial suicides

Three sleepless nights

Two circus tickets

And a severed head in the fridge.

_Merry Christmas from John and Sherlock!_


	7. Sunday

_**Sunday**_

**NOTE: Words in Italics from the song Take Me To Church by Hozier and are the inspiration for this one shot.**

Words: 970

Rating: T

Spoilers: S2:E3

* * *

_My lover's got humour_

_He's the giggle at a funeral_

I don't know how we got roped into this. I didn't know Mrs Hudson's cousin. John didn't either. But still, here we were. I knew John would be cross with me if I said anything rude. "It's a funeral for God's sake, Sherlock, show some respect." You know, something like that.

That is, until John took my hand, causing my stomach to twist like a child.

I looked over probingly, but before I could make my deduction as to what his plans were, he grinned at me and tugged towards the door. I tilted my head, glanced at the few people who saw what we were doing and were shooting us glares, and he just kept on smiling and pulling.

_Knows everybody's disapproval_

_I should've worshipped him sooner_

I let him and when we got out the door, he kissed me.

"I was dying of boredom. Let's go home."

It was late on a Sunday, so people were about with their crosses on their chests and I recoiled from it all. Puny people who needed to believe in something supernatural to be able to handle their problems. Disgusting.

_Every Sunday's getting more bleak_

_A fresh poison each week_

"Why didn't we stay?" I asked John. "I thought you cared about things like that. You know, life."

"Of course I care about life," John replied. "I value life highly. What I don't value is funerals like that. The type where you know nobody actually cared about her. It's because I value life that I couldn't stay there a moment longer. We didn't care, they didn't care, and so it was all an insult to her memory."

_If the heavens ever did speak_

_He's the last true mouthpiece_

"Your funeral… when you…" He paused, cleared his throat, and then continued, "It only had the people that really cared. It was intimate and it was worthy of your death. Even though you weren't dead. Prat."

"Yes, that was a bit not good, I suppose," I replied.

"A bit, yeah," John responded, knocking my shoulder. "You're truly sick," he added melodramatically.

_'We were born sick,' you heard them say it_

_My Church offers no absolutes_

"Oh, you like it," I told him, waving my hand at him in a blasé manner.

John Watson gets turned on by the most random things.

This was one of those things.

He looked over with fire in his eyes before he pressed me against the wall, right there in the open, and kissed me.

"You'll scare the churchgoers, John," I said, trying to look serious.

John looked at me closely, a slight smirk touching his lips, before getting his mouth up to my ear to breathe, "Let them cower."

_He tells me, 'Worship in the bedroom.'_

_The only heaven I'll be sent to_

_Is when I'm alone with you—_

It was only a little bit of snogging later before he was dragging me again, with gusto, towards 221B.

"How is it," I asked as we made our way there, "that talking about how 'sick' I am got you going?"

John looked back at me, his eyes now infused with lust even when we were just innocently walking.

"Like you said. I sort of like it."

_I was born sick,_

_But I love it_

_Command me to be well_

_Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen._

He afforded me his smile again, the one that made the clouds run away and sent the demons back to hell.

_If I'm a pagan of the good times_

_My lover's the sunlight_

We were nearly to the door when a random man saw our intertwined fingers and said to us, "Get a room, faggots."

John, as sensitive as he of course was, said, "We're working on it, mate. Thanks for the suggestion." And even dared to wink at him.

_To keep the God on my side_

_He demands a sacrifice_

_Drain the whole sea_

_Get something shiny_

_Something meaty for the main course_

The man was appalled. "When eternity never comes for you, you'll be sorry for you behaviour."

_That's a fine looking high horse_

_What you got in the stable?_

_We've a lot of starving faithful_

Only when we were inside the door did John say, "Well when you and I have the best fuck of our lives, he'll be sorry he's missing out." One last smile at his own joke before that man was utterly forgotten.

John's hands managed to be forceful and gentle at the same time as my back was against the wall again and he mouthed my neck, making my head fall back and my eyes close.

_That looks tasty_

_That looks plenty_

_This is hungry work_

John lavished my skin with as much attention as he could before I got impatient and started pulling him up the steps and towards my bedroom—which was closer.

We both fell to the bed, on our sides, and our mouths met once more.

He was devouring me and I was devouring him and there was nothing else like this in the universe—not the chase, not the work, nothing.

_No Masters or Kings_

_When the Ritual begins_

_There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_

I spent so much of my life being above it all, thinking I was my own higher power. Then John found me and brought me down into orbit again.

_In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene_

_Only then I am Human_

_Only then I am Clean_

_Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen._

John stopped, that animalistic glint dead for the moment.

"I love you," he breathed to me.

No words properly stated how I felt about him in return. He was everything. I would give him everything.

_Good God, let me give you my life_


	8. Compassion

_**Compassion**_

**NOTE: Inspired by how sick I am right now. **

Words: 939

Rating: K

Spoilers: N/A

* * *

When John heard the knock on his door, he felt a deep sense of trepidation—the kind that Sherlock hadn't instilled for many years now. I mean, it was a start that he was knocking at all. But at the same time, the door was locked—

No, that made no difference. He could've picked the lock and chose not to, which was some sort of consideration. Maybe that meant he felt a teensy bit bad for John and was going to let him take it a little easy when he forced the doctor from his bed.

John had been feeling the sickness coming on for a few days. Just average symptoms, but he knew there would be a day of misery to come with it—when he woke up this morning, he knew it had arrived. Fever, pulsing headache, nausea, aching throat; to say the least, it wasn't pleasant.

He'd known it was coming on for more reasons than that he was building symptoms. Sherlock had been sick just a few days ago, so when John started feeling anything at all, he knew it what was coming.

You would think that because Sherlock had the same illness first it might instill some sort of sympathy towards John's condition.

You'd be wrong.

See, Sherlock worked through his illness and acted as if nothing was wrong. He didn't slow down for a second, physically or mentally. So now Sherlock was going to expect the same behaviour from John—but John, quite obviously, wasn't Sherlock. He was a normal human that wanted to stay in bed for a day when he felt like seventeen elephants had trampled him.

But Sherlock obviously couldn't allow that.

"Go away!" John tried to yell—but it came out as a pathetic rasp. Sherlock may or may not have heard. It made little difference.

"John, let me in."

"No."

"I'll come in anyway."

"Obviously," he complained under his breath. This was doubly frustrating because half of him wanted Sherlock to come in. When you're sick, you want your boyfriend to take care of you, usually. But Sherlock wasn't that type of partner, and when he came in, it would be a whirlwind of _case case case_. And John didn't want to—possibly _couldn't_—handle that right now.

But there Sherlock was wrestling with the lock. It was taking a little longer than it might usually, but that just made John feel a little satisfied as he pulled the blanket over his head.

The door opened and John was glad he'd hid under the covers, because he heard Sherlock click on the light.

"John—"

"Leave me alone."

"I—"

"I can't go out today, Sherlock. Not when I feel like this."

"Listen—"

"I don't care how interesting the case was or that you worked through it just fine. I need a little—"

"Please, John, listen!"

It was the please that stopped John from interrupting. It wasn't really Sherlock's style to do the please thing. And by that John meant that Sherlock would rather iron his hands than say please on any normal day.

When John stayed quiet, Sherlock continued. "I didn't come in here to make you go out."

This made John blink and then slowly come out from his hideaway. The light hurt his eyes, but before he could make any sort of reaction, Sherlock flipped the switch again.

There was still enough light from the window to see Sherlock—but John was starting to wonder if he was delirious.

There Sherlock was, standing in his doorway with a cuppa in one hand and a wad of blankets in the other. No wonder he had trouble with the door. He had no hands.

"What…?" was all John could get out, as groggy as his brain was at the mo'.

Sherlock walked slowly—timidly, even—to the side of John's bed and set the mug down. Then he said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, "I felt terrible when I had this same bout of nasopharyngitis, but I've too much pride and passion for the work to admit it. I knew that you wouldn't be as… well, stubborn as I was. And if I weren't me, I probably would have appreciated some help. So…" He seemed unable to think of anything else to say, so he just held out the blankets a little bit, as if in offering. "I'm likely not your first choice of help, as I'm not experienced in the—"

"Sherlock," John said, fondness in his voice as he smiled through his physical misery. Sherlock met his eyes. "You're always my first choice."

Sherlock's mouth just barely quirked up on one side and he laid the blankets over the ones John already had. "Anything else, then?" he enquired.

"Yeah, stupid. Get in here with me."

This time the smile wasn't as reserved and Sherlock climbed under the covers and John nestled into his side.

"Yeah. Quit trying to make tea; you're rubbish at it."

Sherlock grunted in frustration. "Then get better so I don't have to."

John wrapped his arm more tightly around Sherlock's middle, shutting his eyes. A smile found his lips. Only after another minute did Sherlock relax against him, letting his arms—maybe subconsciously—go around John in return and his chin rest on John's head.

"You know, next time you get sick, I'm giving you the same treatment," John warned, as if being kind was actually a threat. To Sherlock Holmes, maybe it was.

But then again, maybe not. Because Sherlock responded sardonically, "Cuddle with you all day? I'll never survive."

John just grinned as he drifted off to sleep.


	9. Alive

_**Alive**_

**NOTE: Another post-Reichenbach, ignoring the S3 canon.**

Words: 906

Rating: K

Spoilers: S2:E3

* * *

When Sherlock came back from the dead, John had a whirlwind of emotions, whipping through him so quickly and with so much force that he hardly even knew how to handle them. He was furious, desperately confused, heavy with wasted time, back to rage again… It took John a long time to recognize himself. To realize that he and Sherlock were both here and they were fine.

Even Sherlock almost didn't know what to think of John anymore. Sure, John had a backbone, but for the most part he had always taken Sherlock's oddities in stride, let them go. But in the months directly after Sherlock's return, that just wasn't the case. Sometimes John would be glad to see Sherlock, almost being moved to tears, and other times he wanted to throw the nearest heavy object at his head.

Sherlock being back didn't erase the fact that he left in the first place.

Even when John realized he was in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock had related that he also felt 'romantic tendencies' towards John, the doctor had a hard time forgiving his detective some days.

It was a random day—not so different from any other—that John began to heal from that.

* * *

Sherlock had left early that Saturday morning to do who knows what, and John was anxious. He found he was always nervous when Sherlock was gone now. It was far worse when he didn't know where Sherlock'd gone in the first place.

He was pacing the floor when Sherlock came through the door.

Sherlock, as was the norm lately—which was strange, if you thought about it, since this was Sherlock we were talking about—didn't know what to expect from John when he came in. He knew that John reacted differently depending on the day, but hadn't seen a pattern. All he knew was that if Sherlock ever left, John's reaction would be unnecessarily strong when he returned, whether it was from fury that he'd left or relief that he was back.

John turned his head quickly to Sherlock, saw his timid face, and felt all those emotions run through him. 'You can't just leave me again, I hate you' was followed immediately by 'thank god you're here, I love you' and John was so tired of not knowing his own mind.

That was when John figured it out.

"Sherlock," John said carefully. Sherlock obviously was not getting either of the reactions he was tensing for, which actually made him even more nervous. He hated surprises. "You know, I've realised something."

"And what is that?" Sherlock replied in a subdued, wary voice.

"I don't trust you anymore. That's why I get like this when you leave. Because I don't trust you to come back. Not one time have I been sure you'd come back to me, so every time you do, it's like The Fall all over again."

Sherlock stared at John, his expression conveying his thoughts far more vividly than usual.

He was hurt by what John had said, that much was clear. His mouth was just barely open, like he was trying to think of something to say and coming up with nothing.

"John…" Sherlock finally said. John was ready for all the logic Sherlock was going to throw at him, all the 'I have no reason to leave, you nitwit' that was about to come his way… but it didn't come. Instead, he said: "You must realise that I never want to leave your side again. I hate being apart from you. I'm just as frightened that you'll leave as you are that I won't return."

John blinked at him. "Leave?" he asked blankly.

"You've just been… so unhappy lately. I figured everything about me was unsatisfying, that our relationship was just the best you could get. When you found something better, you'd leave me." John was still gaping at Sherlock. "What?" he asked defensively.

"Sherlock… unhappy?" John actually laughed. "Jesus, how could you ever think I'm not happy with you? The only reason I snap is because I'm petrified I'll lose you and that fear is so strong I can't even control it." John took the few steps to stand in front of Sherlock. "You're everything that I want. Permanently. But I need it to be permanent. I can't… I can't lose you again. Ever."

"And I can't lose you," Sherlock replied. "It's…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "It's impossible to get anything done without my blogger. It just won't do."

John let out a quick chuckle. "You… you've never told me that before. That you were afraid of losing me."

"It seemed like unnecessary information."

"Or it seemed like information that made you weak."

Sherlock shrugged. "You are a rather large weakness for enemies to exploit, as displayed by my leaving in the first place. But leaving wouldn't trick anyone now. Not now that they know how truly attached I am."

John had heard these same arguments before, but they sounded different this time. They didn't sound like heartless logic anymore. They sounded like a declaration. He would stay no matter what.

"How attached are you?" asked John innocently, but Sherlock saw through that façade immediately.

"Did you want to engage in make-up coitus?"

"Haven't we talked about using that word?" John asked teasingly.

"Well do you want to or not? Because I'm quite busy today and—"

"Shut up."

And he did.


End file.
